She asks if you are a real Indian

"Ladies first, Mademoiselle." You give her a half bow from your seat.

"OK, I thought from your name that you are a redskin Indian, like Geronimo, non?" The same question that so often irritates you sounds delightful from this French girl's lips and you give her the same short history that you gave Ms. Naylor.

"Many of my friends will be sad, M'sieur." She pantomimes a tear trickling town her cheek with a grin. "Is it true though that you are a soldier from the war in Iraq?"

"Uh-ugh," you scold her with a grin, "now it is my turn. Have you seen this Code of Conduct?" You ask, passing her the old copy from your desk.

"Mais oui, M'sieur Le Dean." She looks through it with casual interest, "The school sends it to every parent before each year." You move to her side and flip to the part about the paddling.

"Read this." You tell her suddenly aware that in spite of your earlier promise, you are sitting with her on the couch and enjoying it far more than you should.

"Ah yes, the-" she pauses for a second as her manicured fingertip searches for the word "the paddling. Mes amis in Lyons were very excited about this. Mamma, she tells me not to be bad or mon cul would be very red. She was a student here 25 years ago, so she remembers." The color on Gabrielle's cheeks makes her even prettier, and you wish you had not moved from your chair.

"But do they still punish students this way?" You ask, surprised by her mother's easy acceptance of a policy that must be fifty years out of date.

"Oh non, M'sieur 'awkfeather." She laughs slapping you gently on your thigh. "Now, we write réflexions." The word sounds charming with her accent, but your not sure what it means.

"I don't understand, Miss DuPlessis, what is a 'reflection' and how is that a punishment?"

"Ah, bien sur, you 'ave discovered the secret to the Academy. It is not a punishment, it is un absurdité, comprendez-vous? A joke."

"How-" You begin again, but she waves her finger at you admonishingly.

"My turn M'sieur." You bite your tongue and nod in surrender. "You were a soldier in Iraq, oui? Did you kill many men, there?"

"A few." More than a few actually, and even more than that in Afghanistan, but this is not a topic you like to discuss. Perhaps sensing your discomfort your charming interrogator turns to another topic, although perhaps no less charged than the first.

"And the women?" Gabrielle asks innocently, "I believe the Persian women in Iraq are very beautiful, M'sieur, did you think so too?" Her hand rests once again on your thigh, and you are more aware than ever how inappropriate it is to be sitting like this with a student with your office door closed.